Melody The Story of a Child

ray stones formless and grim, thrusting their rugged faces out here and there through the scanty soil. Other stones, again, enclosing the whole with a grim, protecting arm, a ragged

ew slabs of white marble, and in one corner is a marble lamb, looking singularly like the woolly lambs one buys for children, standing stiff and solemn on his four straight legs. This is not the "cemetery," be it understood. That is close by the village, and is the favorite walk and place of Sunday

the moss and lichens from head and foot stones,-not so much with any idea of reverence as that she likes to read the inscriptions, and feel the quaint flourishes and curlicues of the older gravestones. She has a sense of personal acquaintance with all the dwellers on this hillside; talks to them and sings to them in her happy fashion, as she pulls away the witch-grass and sorrel. See her now, sitting on that low gre

TO THE

AN

TO HE

Aug. 10

th year o

of my Sus

n the triu

to Jesus

in the arms

cousin) Sophia Dyer, over in the corner there. I never liked Sophia, Susan dear. I seem to think she shouted here too, and snubbed you, because you were gentle and shy. See how her stone perks up, making every inch it can of itself, while yours tries to sink away and hide itself in the good green grass. I think we liked

hen passed on to another which was half buried in the earth,

ing her hand respectfully on the venerable headstone. "Are

en she fell to work on the inscription, which was an elaborate one, surmounted by two cherubs' heads, one resting on an hour-glass, the other on a pair of cro

flesh, these ea

and fetters

r let this

dust be wel

efined. I shouldn't wonder if you washed your walking-stick every time you came home, like Mr. Cuter, over at the Corners. Here's something growing in the tail of your last y. Never mind, Mr. Bascom, I'll get

rs of eyes we see. How many people go half-blind through the world, just for want of the habit of looking at things! How many plod onward, with eyes fixed on the ground, when they might be raised to the skies, seeing the glory

by its bark; knew when it blossomed, and how. More than this,-some subtle sense for which we have no name gave her the power of reading with a touch the mood an

from Melody. She could imitate every bird-call with her wonderful voice; and one day she had come home and told Miss Rejoice quietly that she had been making a concert with a wood-thrush, and that the red squirrel

ave a low call, and in a moment a gray squirrel came running from the stone wall (he had been sitting there, watching her with his bri

s. "I wondered if I should see you to-day, brother. The last time I came you were off hunting somewhere, and I

e inscription on his tombstone was a perpetual amusement to Melody, and she could not help feeling as if the squi

stout y

ould fin

on this

in hand

e it pla

the wor

as cut

om from

d rest

hild Love Good, who slept beneath this low white stone. This was Melody's favorite grave. It was such a dear quaint little name,-Love Good. "Good" had bee

E G

YEARS

ose withere

ared for these parents much more than for those who put t

p, content to nestle under her hand, and bask in the light and warmth of the summer day: the sunlight streamed with tempered glow

Robin well, and loves him well, and he loves her in his own way, yet has never changed a feather at sight of her. He will sing for her, though; and sing he does, shaking and trilling and quivering, pouring his little soul out in melody for joy of the summer day, and of the sweet, quiet place, and of the child who never scares or start

yes are fixed on the child; his face is aglow with wonder and delight, but with something else too,-some passion which strikes a jarring note through

dark tree-tops; and fly you also, gentlest child, to the home where is love and p